by Daniel Silva
"That was the story put out to cover up your role in the operation. The kidnappers demanded that you deliver the ransom money. They'd planned to kill you and Elizabeth Halton together. It was never determined exactly how you were able to escape. There were rumors you tortured the cell leader to death in a field north of London."
"You really mustn't believe everything you read in the papers, Zoe."
"Isn't that the truth." Her eyes narrowed. "So are the rumors correct, Mr. Allon? Did you really torture that terrorist in order to save Elizabeth Halton's life?"
"And what if the answer was yes?"
"As an orthodox left-wing journalist, I would be predictably appalled."
"And if you were Elizabeth Halton?"
"Then I suppose I would hope the bastard suffered a great deal before you put him out of his misery." She scrutinized him carefully. "So are you going to tell me what happened in that field?"
"What field?"
Zoe frowned. "So you get to know all my darkest secrets and I get to know nothing about you."
"I don't know all your secrets."
"Really?" Her tone was sardonic. "What other terrible things would you like to know about me?"
"For the moment, I don't want to know anything at all. I just want you to listen to a story. It's a story about a missing masterpiece by Rembrandt, a fortune in looted Holocaust assets, an Argentine reporter named Rafael Bloch, and a company called Keppler Werk GmbH of Magdeburg, Germany." Gabriel paused, then added, "A company secretly owned by Martin Landesmann."
"Sounds like something that could sell a few newspapers." She glanced at Graham Seymour. "Am I to assume this is all covered by the Official Secrets Act as well?"
Seymour nodded.
"What a pity."
Zoe looked at Gabriel and asked him to tell her the rest of it.
ZOE WAS moved by the story of Lena Herzfeld, fascinated by the torment of Peter Voss, and heartbroken by the deaths of Rafael Bloch and Alfonso Ramirez. But it was the long list of Martin Landesmann's many sins that horrified her the most. Gabriel could see that the skepticism Zoe displayed earlier in the evening had now given way to anger—an anger that seemed to grow more intense with each new revelation he laid on the table.
"Are you saying Martin Landesmann is selling critical equipment to the Iranian nuclear program?"
"That's what we suspect, Zoe."
"Suspect?"
"As you know, there are few absolutes in intelligence work, but here's what we've discovered. We know Martin is selling high-grade industrial equipment to Iran through its state-sponsored nuclear-smuggling network. We know he's making a tremendous amount of money doing it. And we know he's going to a great deal of trouble to keep it a secret. At a time when the Iranians are moving rapidly toward developing a nuclear weapons capability, we can't afford to be in the dark about anything. It's essential that we uncover exactly what Martin is selling them." He paused. "And for that we need you."
"Me? Everything I know about Martin's business is contained in an article that Mr. Seymour now says was inaccurate. What can I possibly do to help you discover what he's shipping to the Iranians?"
"More than you realize," Gabriel said. "But before we get to that, there are a few things I need to know."
"Such as?"
"How did it happen, Zoe? How did you become involved with a man like Martin Landesmann?"
She gave him a wry smile. "Perhaps social customs are different in Israel, Mr. Allon, but here in Britain there are some things that are still regarded as private—unless you're a politician or a famous footballer, of course."
"I can assure you, Zoe, I have no desire to hear any intimate details about your relationship."
"What would you like to know?"
"Let's start with something simple," he said. "How did you meet?"
Zoe made a brief show of thought. "It was two years ago, in Davos. Martin had just given his yearly address, and he'd been electrifying. I filed my story from the pressroom, then headed over to the Belvedere Hotel. It was the usual scene—movie stars and politicians rubbing shoulders with the world's richest businessmen. That's where the real action takes place in Davos, at the cocktail parties and in the bars of the swankiest hotels."
"And Martin was there?"
She nodded. "He and his entourage were having drinks in the corner, protected by a wall of bodyguards. I ordered a glass of wine and immediately found myself in a horrendously boring conversation with a finance minister from Africa about debt relief. After ten minutes, I was ready to slit my wrists. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was a blond chap, dark suit, buzz cut, German accent. Said his name was Jonas Brunner. Said he worked for Mr. Landesmann. Said Mr. Landesmann was wondering whether I might join him for a drink. I accepted, of course, and a few seconds later I was seated next to the man himself."
"And what did the man want?"
"I'd been badgering him for months for an interview. He told me he wanted to meet the world's most persistent woman, or so he said at the time."
"Why would any businessman in his right mind want to give you an interview?"
"It wasn't going to be that kind of piece. I wanted to do something different from my usual scorched-earth investigations. I wanted to write about a wealthy businessman who was actually doing something decent with his money. I told Martin I wanted my readers to meet the man behind the curtain."
"But your conversation that night was off the record?"
"Completely."
"What did you talk about?"
"Remarkably, me. Martin wanted to know about my work. My family. My hobbies. Anything but himself."
"And you were impressed?"
"Dazzled, actually. It's hard not to be. Martin Landesmann is incredibly handsome and wealthy beyond belief. And not many of the men I meet ever want to talk about anything but themselves."
"So you were attracted to him?"
"At the time, I was intrigued. And remember, I was after an interview."
"And Martin?"
She gave a faint smile. "As the evening wore on, he became quite flirtatious—in an understated, subliminal Martin sort of way," she added. "He finally asked whether I would have dinner with him in the privacy of his suite. He said it would give us a chance to get to know each other better. When I told him that I didn't think it was appropriate, he seemed quite shocked. Martin isn't used to people telling him no."
"And the interview?"
"I thought I'd lost any chance of getting it. But the opposite turned out to be true. Scott Fitzgerald was right about the rich, Mr. Allon. They are different from you and me. They want everything. And if they can't have something, they want it more."
"And Martin wanted you?"
"So it seemed."
"How did he pursue you?"
"Quietly and persistently. He would call every couple of days, just to chat and swap insights. British politics. Bank of England monetary policy. The budget deficit in America." She paused, then added, "Very sexy stuff."
"Nothing personal?"
"Not then," she said. "After about a month, he finally called me late one night and said a single word: Yes. I got on the next plane to Geneva and spent three days inside Martin's bubble. Even for a jaded reporter like me, it was an intoxicating experience. When the piece ran, it was an earthquake. It was required reading for businessmen and politicians around the world. And it cemented my reputation as one of the top financial journalists in the world."
"Did Martin like it?"
"At the time, I didn't have a clue."
"No phone calls?"
"Radio silence." She paused. "I confess I was disappointed when I didn't hear from him. I was curious to know what he thought of the article. Finally, two weeks after publication, he called again."
"What did he want?"
"He said he wanted to celebrate the fact that he was the first businessman to survive the slashing pen of Zoe Reed. He invited me to dinner. He even suggested I bring a date."
&nbs
p; "You accepted?"
"Instantly. But I didn't bring a date. Martin and I had dinner here in London at L'Autre Pied. Afterward, I let him take me back to his hotel. And then..." Her voice trailed off. "Then I let him take me to bed."
"No qualms about journalistic ethics? No guilt about sleeping with a married man?"
"Of course I had qualms. In fact, I swore to myself it would never happen again."
"But it did."
"The very next afternoon."
"You began seeing him regularly after that?"
She nodded.
"Where?"
"Anywhere but London. My face is far too recognizable here. We always met somewhere on the Continent, usually in Paris, sometimes in Geneva, and occasionally at his chalet in Gstaad."
"How do you communicate?"
"The normal way, Mr. Allon. Martin's communications are very secure."
"For good reason," Gabriel said. "Any plans to see him in the future?"
"After what you've just told me?" Zoe laughed. "Actually, I'm supposed to see him in Paris four days from now. A week after that, I'm scheduled to go to Geneva. That's actually a work trip—Martin's annual Christmas gala at Villa Elma. Each year three hundred very rich, very lucky people are allowed to spend a few hours inside Martin's inner sanctum. The price of admission is a hundred-thousand-euro contribution to his One World foundation. Even then, he has to turn away hundreds of people each year. I go for free, of course. Martin enjoys bringing me to Villa Elma." She paused, then added, "I'm not sure Monique feels the same way."
"She knows about you?"
"I've always thought she must suspect something. Martin and Monique pretend to have the perfect relationship, but in reality their marriage is a sham. They reside under the same roof but for the most part lead completely separate lives."
"Has he ever discussed the possibility of leaving her for you?"
"Surely you're not as old-fashioned as that, Mr. Allon." She frowned. "Being around Martin Landesmann is very exciting. Martin makes me happy. And when it's over..."
"He'll go back to his life, and you'll go back to yours?"
"Isn't that the way it always works?"
"I suppose," said Gabriel. "But it might not be so easy for you."
"Why would you say that?"
"Because you're in love with him."
Zoe's cheeks turned vermilion. "Is it that obvious?" she asked quietly.
"I'm afraid so."
"And you still want to use me?"
"Use you? No, Zoe, I have no intention of using you. But I would be honored if you would agree to join our endeavor as a full partner. I promise it will be the experience of a lifetime. And you'll see things no other British reporter has seen before."
"Perhaps now might be a good time to tell me exactly what it is you want me to do, Mr. Allon."
"I need you to see Martin Landesmann at his apartment in Paris one more time. And I need you to do me a favor while you're there."
IT WAS a few minutes after midnight when the Jaguar limousine bearing Zoe Reed and Graham Seymour eased away from the curb outside the Highgate safe house. Gabriel departed five minutes later, accompanied by Nigel Whitcombe. They headed south through the quiet streets of London, Whitcombe chattering with edgy excitement, Gabriel emitting little more than the occasional murmur of agreement. He climbed out of the car at Marble Arch and made his way on foot to an Office safe flat overlooking Hyde Park on Bayswater Road. Ari Shamron was waiting anxiously at the dining-room table, wreathed in a fog of cigarette smoke.
"Well?" he asked.
"We have our agent in place."
"How long do we have to get her ready?"
"Three days."
Shamron smiled. "Then I suggest you get busy."
49
HIGHGATE, LONDON
It was an alarmingly short period of time, even for an intelligence service used to working under the pressure of a ticking clock. They would have just three days to turn a British investigative reporter into a professional spy. Three days to prepare her. Three days to train her in the basics of tradecraft. And three days to teach her how to perform a pair of critical procedures—one involving Martin Landesmann's secure mobile phone, a Nokia N900, the other involving his Sony VAIO Z Series notebook computer.
Their task was made even more difficult by Gabriel's decision to leave Zoe's work schedule unchanged, a step he took to avoid any disruption in her daily routine. It meant the team would have her for only a few hours each evening, and only after she had already put in an exhausting day at the office. Graham Seymour quietly voiced doubts as to whether she would be ready, as did the Americans, who were now following the affair closely. But Gabriel held firm. Zoe had a date with Martin in Paris in three days. Break that date, and Martin might become suspicious. Send her into Martin's bed too many times with her head filled with secrets, and she might end up like Rafael Bloch.
For his classroom, Gabriel chose the familiar surroundings of the Highgate safe house, though by the time Zoe arrived for her first session it no longer bore any resemblance to a private London club. Its walls were covered with maps, photographs, and diagrams, and its rooms were occupied by a large group of Israelis who seemed more like harried graduate students than accomplished intelligence operatives. They greeted the new arrival as though they had been expecting her for a long time, then crowded around the dining-room table for a quick takeaway curry. The warmth displayed by Gabriel's team was genuine, even if the names they hid behind were not. Zoe gravitated naturally toward the tweedy, Oxbridge-educated Yossi, though she was clearly intrigued by an attractive woman with long dark hair who referred to herself as Rachel.
The enormous operational constraints forced Gabriel to dispense with normal methods of training and design a true crash course in the basics of espionage. It began immediately after dinner when Zoe was placed on a conveyor belt of sorts that whisked her from room to room, briefing to briefing. They trained her in the basics of countersurveillance and impersonal communication. They taught her how to move in public and how to conceal emotion and fear. And they even gave her a few lessons in self-defense. "She's naturally aggressive," Rimona told Gabriel, a bag of frozen peas pressed to her swollen eye. "And she has a wicked left elbow."
She was a gifted pupil, but then they had expected nothing less. By the end of the first night, the team unanimously declared her an amazingly quick study—high praise, given the quality of past recruits. Blessed with the skills of an elite reporter, she was able to store, sort, and retrieve vast amounts of information with remarkable speed. Even Dina, who carried a database of terrorism in her brain, was impressed by Zoe's power of recall. "She's used to working under a deadline," Dina said. "The harder we push, the better she reacts."
Her final stop each night was the small upstairs study. There, alone with Gabriel, she would repeatedly rehearse the procedures that were the central purpose for her recruitment. If successful, Gabriel promised, Martin's world would be an open book. One mistake, he cautioned, and she would sink the entire operation and place herself in grave danger. She was to assume that the wolf was just outside the door waiting to catch her in the ultimate act of betrayal. To defeat him would require speed and near silence. Speed came easily; silence proved far more elusive. It was finally achieved late on the second night, when a recording of the session revealed nothing audible to the human ear.
Zoe's rapid training, however, was only one of Gabriel's concerns. There were vehicles to rent, additional personnel to move into place, and a safe flat to acquire on the Right Bank of the river Seine, not far from the Hotel de Ville. And given the high-profile involvement of the British, there were many high-profile meetings to attend. The Iran team from MI6 found its way to the planning table, as did representatives of the Foreign Office and the Ministry of Defence. Indeed, each time Gabriel entered Thames House, the crowd seemed larger. There were obvious risks to working in such close proximity to sister intelligence services—namely, that those same servi
ces were taking careful note of every operational tendency they were able to observe. Gabriel's exposure was increased by the fact that he was living and working inside an MI5 safe house. Though Graham Seymour denied he was listening in on the preparations, Gabriel was confident that every word uttered by his team was being recorded and analyzed by MI5. But such was the price to be paid for British cooperation against Martin Landesmann. And for Zoe.
Gabriel remained faithful to the original operational accord and grudgingly allowed Graham Seymour to handle Zoe's surveillance. Over the objections of the lawyers, Seymour extended the zone of coverage to include Zoe's telephone and computer inside the offices of the Financial Journal. The intercepts of her calls and electronic correspondence exposed no indiscretion or second thoughts of any kind. Nor did they reveal any undisclosed contact from one Martin Landesmann, chairman of Global Vision Investments of Geneva.
On Zoe's final night at the Highgate safe house, she seemed more focused than ever. And if she was at all frightened by what lay ahead, she gave no sign of it. She resolutely stepped onto Gabriel's conveyor belt and was whisked one last time from room to room, briefing to briefing. Her night ended, as usual, in the upstairs study. Gabriel switched off the lights and listened carefully while she rehearsed for a final time.
"Done," she said. "How long did it take?"
"Two minutes, fourteen seconds."
"That's good?"
"Very good."
"Did you hear anything?"
"Not a sound."
"Are we finished?"
"Not quite." Gabriel switched on the lights and looked at her thoughtfully. "It's not too late to change your mind, Zoe. We'll find some other way of getting to him. And I promise that none of us will think any less of you."
"Yes, but I might." She was silent for a moment. "You should know something about me, Mr. Allon. Once I've made a decision, I stick to it. I never break promises, and I hate to make mistakes."
"We share that affliction."
"I thought so."
Zoe picked up the rehearsal phone. "Any last-minute advice?"
"My team has prepared you well, Zoe."
